


Collector

by Jaxon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Canon Compliant, Cokeworth, Dissection, Gen, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 01:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13043571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaxon/pseuds/Jaxon
Summary: From OotP:  [Snape's office was] lined with shelves bearing hundreds of glass jars in which floated slimy bits of animals and plants, suspended in variously coloured potions.To amass a collection that large, it seems his fascination probably started at a very young age...





	Collector

**Author's Note:**

> As nearly always, from a Tumblr prompt: What sort of things did a pre Hogwarts Severus Snape do to amuse himself in Cokeworth?

Severus traced a small dirty finger across the glass jar’s faded label:   _Duerr’s Preserves - Raspberry_. With a triumphant smile, he unscrewed the top of the jar, and dropped in the day’s findings:  a black feather, a bright red button, and an elastic band.  He tightly screwed the top back on and held the jar up to the window, using the dying light to peer at the precious contents within.  He loved his collection of scavenged treasures, especially once they were locked away in glass; no dust, no dirt, no changing.

He pushed the jar under the bed, and fumbled for the next one.   _Duerr’s Preserves – Blackcurrant_.  This was his favourite.  He made short work of the top, and then gently pulled out the shell from his pocket and placed it inside with the others.  The jar was only a third full, and it had taken him almost a year to collect this many.  He turned it over and over in his hands, the intricate detailed spirals of the snail shells captivating him.  With one last look of longing, he tightened the top and then returned the jar to its hiding place.  

* * *

“How can yer ‘ave chips without vinegar?”  Tobias angry voice echoed up the stairs.  “Twice this week this is now!”

“I bought some on Monday, Toby.”

“Can’t ‘ave.”

“I did!”

“Where is it then, Leen? Eh?”

There was a long silence. Severus sat with his back pressed against his bedroom door, the bottle of sour liquid tightly clutched against his chest.  His breathing was unsteady; both of his parents thought he was at school, and it wouldn’t do for him to be found now – and most definitely not with his hands full.

“I’m jus’ sayin’…  Yer keep sayin’ yer gorrit, love, but it dunt make it true!”  

“I put it on the list-”

“Like yer did the week before, when yer forgot then an’ all!”

“I didn’t forget.”  

“Summat’s wrong wi’ yer brain,” Tobias muttered.

“Bloody must be to stay here!”  Eileen’s retort was waspish, and high pitched, and Severus’ heart thrummed in his chest as he heard the scrawp of wooden legged chair against tile, the clink of mug in the sink and then a collection of soft thumps that he couldn’t quite place. Could be his da pulling his boots on, or his mam putting the shopping in the cupboard, or…well, he didn’t want to think about the possibility of fist against skin.  

He sat, straining to hear, for what felt like an eternity - and then the faint tones of the radio floated up the stairs.  Severus shuffled across his bedroom floor and carefully secreted the bottle beneath his bed.

* * *

His father’s return was always loud, and this was no different; the rattle of the key in the lock, the bang of the door in its wooden frame, and the clatter of coins against the worktop.  

The light suddenly snapped on, flooding the kitchen with illumination, and Severus froze.  His hips were balanced on the edge of the sink, his bare feet not quite touching the floor, and his small hand only just – now that he was at full stretch – reaching the tap.  He watched in horror as the steady pulse of water from the tap caused his mug to overflow, and he struggled to hold onto the heavy weight.

Tobias immediately swung a thick warm arm around the boy’s midsection, and hoisted him from the sink. He rubbed the edge of the wet mug with his fingers, stopping it from leaving water droplets across the kitchen, and then leant back to turn the tap off.  “What yer still doin’ up at this time, lad?”

Severus stayed silent, his dark eyes looking at the tiled floor instead of his father.

“Eh, son?”  Tobias jostled him in his arms, and then tapped his boy’s chest to get his attention.  “Answer me, Russ.”

“Thirsty, Da,” Severus said, softly.

“Should be in bed. It’s gone nine.  Where’s yer mam?”

Severus immediately turned from his father’s gaze, and shrugged.  “Dunno.”

“Yer do know.  Where’s yer mam?”

He pressed his lips against the cool mug, slurping water loudly into his mouth.  “Ahhh!”

“I’ll ahhhh yer in a minute, yer soft sod,” Tobias said, trying not to smile.  “She in bed then?”

“Sleepin’ yeah.”

“In bed?”

Severus shook his small head tightly, and then put his lips to his mug again.  “In there,” he finally muttered, his voice muffled by the mug.

Tobias grunted, and set his son on the floor.  Severus winced as his bare feet met cold tile, and hopped on the spot.  Tobias pushed open the living room door, and sighed heavily at the sight of his wife.  Eileen was slumped in her chair, her neck lolling forward at an uncomfortable angle.

Severus watched intensely as Tobias plucked the empty potions vial from his mother’s fingers.  Tobias put it on the mantelpiece, paused to stoke the remains of the fire, and then turned to lift his wife.  He did so with ease - as if she were no heavier than Severus himself - and then made his way upstairs.

A few minutes later, he came back down, his tread heavy on the bare stairs.  

“Sorry.”

“Fer what?”  Tobias ruffled his son’s hair.

“Bein’ up.  Jus’, I ain’t had nowt since school.”

“Yer mam ain’t fed yer yer tea?”  Tobias leant heavily against the kitchen sink.

“Been poorly.”  

“Yer ‘ave?  Or yer mam?”

“Mam.”

“She been like that since yer got back?”

Severus nodded.

“Right,” Tobias said, brusquely.  “Get yersel’ in front of the fire an’ warm them feet up.”

Ten minutes later, Severus watched as his dad toasted bread on the open fire, and then scooped marmalade from the jar and spread it thickly on the slice.

“’ere, y’are,” Tobias said, passing it over.  Severus took it, his fingers immediately sticky as warm marmalade spilt over the side of the slice.  He wrinkled his nose, holding it about a foot away from his face.

Tobias held back a grin. “What’s up wi’ yer?  Thought yer was starvin’?”

“Dunner like marmalade.”

At that, Tobias laughed, and stood.  “Bloody hell, yer a rum ‘un.  Yer coulda said when I got the jar.  Give it ‘ere,” and with a quick movement, he’d taken the toast off his son and moved back into the kitchen.  A moment later, he returned – half eaten toast in one hand, and a jar of Duerr’s strawberry jam in the other.  “This all right fer yer distinguished tastes?”

“Yeh,” Severus grinned.

“Int much in it,” Tobias warned, as he scraped a clean spoon across the insides.

“S’alright.  As long as it int marmalade.”

The two sat in companionable silence, chewing on their slices of toast, and Severus sipping at his water.  After half an hour, Severus’ eyes started to flutter closed, and Tobias tapped him on the shoulder.  

“C’mon, little ‘un, finish that last bit and then get up them dancers.”

Severus nodded, rubbing his eyes whilst he ate the last of his toast.  Tobias licked his fingers and then swiped at his son’s cheek where a streak of red preserve had dribbled.

“Da!”

“S’either that or I get the cloth an’ yer can ‘ave a proper wash.”

“…s’alright.”  Severus rubbed furiously at his face.  “It’ll do.”

“Yeh,” Tobias laughed, “thought it would an’ all.”  

“Da…”

“What now?  Yer’ve ‘ad yer water, an' yer’ve had yer tea.” Tobias huffed.  “Dunner be playin’ me up now just coz yer mam’s not feelin’ too bright.”

Severus looked abashed. “I wuz jus’ gonna ask if I could ‘ave the jar.”  He pointed at the empty glass.  

Tobias looked at his son quizzically.  “Yer wan’ the jar?”  

“Mam lets me.”

Taking in his son’s hungry look, he held back a laugh.  “Let me rinse it fer yer,” he said, “else yer’ll get them sticky mitts all over yer sheets.”

Severus watched eagerly as his father quickly washed out the jar, screwed the top back on, and then passed it to his son.  

“What yer gon’ do wi’ it?”

Severus shrugged. “I’ll think o’ summat.  Night Da.”

“Night lad.”

* * *

Severus rummaged in his pocket, the slick slime coating his fingers as he pulled the creature out.  He held the snail by its shell and watched as the thick grey muscle twisted in mid-air. He pulled off his shoes and used them to create a makeshift pen, using the corner of his room as the other two boundaries.  He moved more quickly now, pulling snail after snail out of his pockets, grimacing at the sticky trails they’d left in their wake.

He grabbed the new jar:  _Duerr’s Preserves:  Strawberry_  – and twisted the lid.  He lifted the snails one by one from their confinement and into the jar.  Immediately, their thick bodies slicked along the glass, and Severus paused – briefly fascinated by their movements – and then he reached for the vinegar.

He poured the vinegar into the jar, his breath catching as he watched the snails succumb to the liquid. Within moments, all activity in the jar had ceased and Severus was oddly captivated by how their bodies started to dissolve.  He screwed the top on the jar, and pushed it away.  He wanted their shells, that’s all, and an uncomfortable twinge of guilt settled in the pit of his stomach as he saw the creatures writhing and twisting.

Unable to look for longer, he pushed the jar under his bed.

* * *

“Yer ruined it.”

Eileen stilled as she watched her son push peas around his plate.  “I beg your pardon?”

“My collection.  Yer ruined it.”

“Your..?”  

“In my room.  Yer took it an' ruined it.”

She frowned.  “I certainly have not, and I have no idea what you’re accusing me of, Severus.”

At that, a small burst of rage shot through his body, and he slammed his fork on the table.  She watched, aghast, as she saw her husband’s unhealthy fury duplicated in their small son – in the jut of his jaw, and the turn of his head, and the heavy stamp of his feet on the stairs.

And then he was back. The jam jar was filled with a murky liquid, and she took it from him tentatively.  She opened the lid, and recoiled instantly as the harsh smell of acid and decay wafted up.  She replaced the lid, and held the jar at arm’s length.  “What, in the name of Merlin, is this?”

“My shells.”

He was gone again, and this time, he reappeared with another jar.  This jar was pristine – full of dry snail shells.  Eileen held her hand out, and compared the two jars; one full of the wonder of nature, and one full of decomposition.

“I get ‘em from the river,” he said.  “But it takes ages.”

Eileen sighed, suddenly understanding.  “So when you couldn’t find any empty shells, you took snails and…”  She trailed off, a coil of distaste spiralling in her stomach. “What did you use?”  But before he could answer, she suddenly remembered Tobias’ rage over condiments.  “…vinegar.”

He gave a short nod. “An’ it was workin’,” he said. “They stopped movin’, an’ they…” He paused, a macabre look casting across his tiny features.  “…they  _dissolved_ , Mam.”

“And so did the shells,” she informed him, crisply.  

“They’re in there?” he gaped, staring at the murky liquid.  “They dissolved an’ all?  But they’re…hard.”

“Vinegar is an acid. Shells are a base.”  She could tell by his puzzled frown that the terms meant nothing to him.  “The two react, and,” she swirled the jar, “this happens.”

“It was meant to keep ‘em, like the onions in the chippy.”

Eileen stifled a laugh. “Pickling works with food.  Not so much with animals.”  She opened the back door and poured the contents of the jar – at arm’s length – down the grid.  “Eat your peas,” she said, as he watched her boil the kettle and clean the jar out with soapy water.  She dried it, and placed it on the table.

“Yer givin’ it me back?” He looked astonished.  “Yer not angry?”

“What else have you got in those jars?”

“Shells.  Buttons.  String.  Feathers.”  He paused as he thought.  “Couple of ha’pennies.  Wooden fork from the chippy.  Some pebbles.”

She nodded.  “Nothing alive?”

He shook his head.

She held his gaze. “Are you sure?”

He looked a little abashed. “I did ‘ave, fer a bit.  But only fer a bit.”  He glanced at his mother, trying to gauge her reaction.  “’ad some frogspawn.”

“And where is it now?”

“Back at the river,” he said.  “I only ‘ad a bit an' they’re real frogs now.  Looked after ‘em proper like.”

Eileen pinched the bridge of her nose.  “Anything else?”  

He shook his head again. “No.”

She stared at him, certain that he wasn’t telling the truth.  “…nothing that used to be alive?”

He paused.

“Severus?”

“’ad a rat.”

“A rat?  In your room?”

“Yeh.”

“A dead rat?”

“Yeh.”

“I might regret asking this, but why?”

“Wanted to keep ‘im.”

Eileen sighed.  “Why?”

“Wanted to see ‘ow it worked.”  He gave a twisted grin and moved his arms.  “’ow it fits together an’ moves an’ thinks an’ breathes.”

“Dead rats don’t breathe. Or think.  Or move.”

“Well…  No.”  He looked sheepish.  “But it did.”

“No more rats in the house.”

“Not even dead ones? Not even to see ‘ow it works?”

She appraised him thoughtfully.  “You can have a dead rat in the house when you’ve learnt how to preserve and study it properly.”

He nodded.

“Not a moment before. Or I’ll tell your father.”

* * *

He sat at the kitchen table, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and an array of surgical instruments spread before him.  A large glass jar sat to his left, and smaller ones flanked it – each containing a bobbing organ, masterfully removed from its owner and encased in a concoction of formaldehyde.

A stack of parchment sat on his right.  His quill lay next to his ink pot, and as he worked, he scribbled furiously – noting his observations, and making detailed sketches of the prone form before him. He neatly filled out labels, and stuck them to the filled jars:   _Heart.  Liver.  Brain.  Intestines._

“Do I have to sit here whilst you do this?”

Severus froze, his scalpel hovering in the air above the dissected rat.  When he spoke, his voice was a soft drawl.  “When I was six, I made a solemn promise that I would not bring rats into this house.”  He gave a nasty grin, revealing his crooked teeth.  He placed his scalpel heavily on the table, and rubbed his hands with a cloth, before standing, and pulling his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat.  “But perhaps you are correct.  It is rather late in the day.”

With a wave of his hands and a snap of his fingers, the table cleared – the dissected rat was hoisted into the large jar, and it magically filled with formaldehyde.  The lids sailed towards the jars, and sealed them shut, and the collection stacked itself neatly in the corner.  The pages of the parchment lifted into the air, filed themselves, and disappeared into the living room where they fell neatly into a drawer, which smartly locked itself.  The array of surgical tools were magically sterilised, and returned into their tool roll.  The ink was capped, the quill was stashed, and Severus picked up two glasses and his favoured bottle of firewhisky from the cupboard.  He beckoned for his companion to follow him into the living room.

“For both of us?”

“Of course,” Severus drawled, pouring a large measure into the glass and offering it to his guest. “Shall we drink to your good health?”

“You’ve done that before,” he said, pointing back to the kitchen.

“Dissection?  As a Potions Master, I should think so.”

“Always rats?”  There was a quaver in the other man’s voice. “You tried when you were…six?”

Severus gave a soft laugh. “Not quite.  But a dead rat in the house was enough to raise my mother’s caution.”

“Yes.”  He sniffed, his unease obvious.  “I could understand her banning dead rats.”

“Oh no no, it was  _all_  rats,” Severus said sharply.  “I could only have them indoors once I had learnt how to study them properly.”  He gave another crooked grin at the man’s clear discomfort.

“So I am to assume that you have done that?”

“Oh yes.  Indeed, I find that the initial stages of preservation are the most important.  It’s the pickling, you see.”  He raised his glass, his grin broad once more.  “Bottoms up, Wormtail.”  


End file.
